The First of Many
by thewindwarns
Summary: Branson and Sybil and conversation. A garage scene set during S1.  Written for the Winter 2011 Downton Exchange.


Title: The First of Many  
>Fandom: Downton Abbey<br>Word Count: 710 words  
>CharactersPairings: Sybil/Branson  
>Summary: Branson and Sybil and conversation. Set during S1.<br>Notes: Written for babushka-yojik and originally posted here for the Winter 2011 Downton Exchange. Many thanks to jadeandlilac for her wonderful beta services!

Disclaimer: I do not own Downton Abbey.

He's lying on the floor of the garage, making some adjustments to the car when he hears a knock at the door. Startled, he sits up too quickly, bumping his head and scattering his tools in the process.

"Branson, is everything alright in there?" A figure rushes toward him, laughs when she sees him in his grease-stained finery.

It is just his luck, he thinks, to be anything less than debonair when she has come to call. "Lady Sybil," he begins, crossing his arms in an attempt to reclaim what's left of his dignity, "the garage is certainly no place for someone like you."

She shakes her head, dismisses his concerns with a careless wave. "And to think, it was only yesterday that you were enlightening me as to why such class boundaries should be erased! Besides, it's not as though anyone is up in arms when Mary visits Carson."

He sighs, decides not to comment on the fact that there are several reasons why that might not be the case. He can only imagine what the earl would do if he knew his youngest daughter was _seeking_ him out, when the very idea of her reading _pamphlets_ was bad enough. "That may be true milady, but it doesn't change that you're standing here with me, when I'm certain the rest of the house expects you at luncheon."

"You mustn't worry. I told them I had left a borrowed book in the car, and that Imogen was anxious that I return it before Christmas. Besides, everyone is much too busy with the preparations for the Servant's Ball to notice if I'm gone for a little while." He is suddenly struck by her proximity, the absurdity of the fact that she has marched right in and taken a seat near him as though she's done it many times before.

A silence settles between them, strangely comfortable, before he clears his throat. "Pardon me for asking milady, but I have to admit that I'm still not quite sure why you're here."

"I just thought," she says, as though she is just remembering herself, "that you could use a friend. You were just so quiet the other day after mentioning that you missed Ireland that I was certain I had made you homesick. Gwen often feels better after we talk, so you could tell me about anything you'd like I suppose. As much as you would like to claim credit for my recent venture into politics, I _can_ carry a conversation on other topics, you know."

"That's very gracious of you, Lady Sybil, but I'm sure I'd put you to sleep with all my talk of family."

"You'd be rather surprised, Branson. I've developed quite a tolerance for the mundane after listening to Mary and Edith bicker all these years."

He laughs at her jest, teases her with one of his own. "I promise, milady, that I will never utter any tale that is less than extraordinary in your presence."

"Branson, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply that your life was uninteresting, just -"

"I know," he interrupts. He gives her small smile, is the tiniest bit glad to see her offer him one in return. It's easy, he finds, to begin recounting his childhood, telling her about how his older sister always saved a little bit of dinner just for him, and why he had refused to speak to his brother for a week after he had dropped his books in the mud. He dutifully answers her questions about his mother's cooking and his father's favorite songs, is surprised to hear her confess about the time she had gotten lost in one of the guest rooms upstairs, crying for what felt like hours until Mrs. Hughes had found her. Time slips by, and it is only when he gently reminds her that surely it would not take _this long_ to search the car that she makes to leave.

He thanks her for her troubles at the door, listens to her say that she was glad to be of service. It's not a visit home, but the feeling of _promise_ that lingers in the air long after she has gone makes him think it was a rather fine gift after all.


End file.
